


Moving Objects

by Kahvi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-01-20 01:44:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1492129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nearly two years after Sherlock Holmes fell to his death, Sally Donovan takes a much needed vacation - knowing full well that if she doesn't, she might end up like Anderson. An extended Easter break in the Swiss alps seems like just the ticket, but just as she is finding it hard to get away from work, work appears to find it equally hard to keep away from her...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

«I brought Pad Thai.» The steaming bag hit Phil's overflowing table. Papers scattered to the fragrant winds, but he made no move to stop them. Was that a good or a bad sign? It was hard to tell, these days. It really was. 

«Yummy.»

«Don't be like that. I spoke to Saundra-»

«That wasn't Saundra.»

«What happened to Saundra?»

«She left,» he said lightly, swirling his chair around and pulling out a carton with obvious reproach. Whether of himself or her, Sally could not be certain. «No surprise there.»

«Well,» she wasn't going to RSVP to his pity party. Been there. Done that. Ruined the poor-quality t-shirt in the first wash. «Whomever it was, she told me you haven't been out of the flat for at least five days.» 

«How would she know?» 

«That's a very good question, especially if she's not your girlfriend.» And if that did not matter at all, as she was trying to tell herself, that word would not have slipped out. But it did, though it was hardly her business. Been there, t-shirt, etc. «Anyway, I just stopped by to see how you were doing.» 

«I'm fine.» 

«So I see.» Forkfulls of noodles passed between them by ways of conversation. Well, not from his mouth to hers. Again, been there... oh, what was the use. «Phil,» she said, sitting down, «I'm-»

«For god's sake, don't say you're worried about me.»

«But I am.» _No, I'm pregnant,_ she didn't say. Tempting joke, but not a good one. Not at all. 

«I'm not the one you should be worried about.» 

«Phil...» She shouldn't have come here. God knew why she kept doing it. Misguided affection? Phil wasn't a bad... he wasn't the worst... No. It was impossible to keep that pretense up, even to herself. 

The fork kept moving, up and down, up and down. «Sherlock Holmes is alive,» Phil said, flatly, when it finally stopped. 

« _Jesus._ » 

«I wish. How long'd it take for him to come back; two days?»

«Yeah, well it's going on two _years_ for Sherlock. You honestly think he's still alive?»

«Yes.» Phil laid the fork down with finality and met her eyes. At least they looked like they'd had some few decent nights of sleep which, Sally had to admit, was more than she could say for herself. 

«And then what? He'll give you a hug? Sit down and give you an exclusive into how he faked his death? Pat on the back and a 'you were right all along?'»

Phil twitched. He pushed the carton away, leaned back in his chair. «I believe in-»

«Sherlock Holmes? Yeah, I've seen the posters.» And the flyers. And the website. Christ, the website. «Since when?»

«I've always-»

«You were in the pub giving a _toast_ when the news came in he'd offed himself!»

« _Don't you think I know that!_ » Phil's hand hit the table hard enough for Sally to reach for her gun. She grunted. «What do you think this,» he clutched at the papers that hadn't escaped, most of which were now spattered with little hot flecks of yellow, «is all about? I'm trying to make things better! You were right there with me; you convinced _me_ he was a fraud, and Lestrade; all of us! You set the whole thing in motion!» 

«Yeah. I did.» _But,_ she added, not saying because there were only so many times you could, _We didn't throw him off that roof. Neither of us._

«How can you just sit there calmly and admit that!»

Sally folded her arms. It was Saturday afternoon, and she'd been at work since Friday morning, with only a shower, two take-aways and the aproximate coffee consumption of the entire British Empire to sustain her. She took a look around; a _good_ look, and somewhere between the blurry photos of bad grafitti and the list of 'obvious hints' in the latest Midsomer Murders episodes, she finally gave up. «Find a better way to deal with your guilt,» she told him, getting to her tired feet. 

«What? Do nothing, like you?»

Sally checked her watch. Just past one. In under two hours, she'd be on her way to four days of, ideally, watching other people skiing. At least one or two days of that; then, possibly, having a go herself. Drinks in the evening, with people she didn't know, who didn't know Sherlock Holmes, either. And possibly, hopefully, after the drinks, taking them back to her room and getting to know them _very_ well, if blissfully temporarily. She straigthened her back, exhaling slowly. Phil was still staring her down. Good. «What I do, is what every officer who's made a mistake tries to do; make it better. What I do, is _work_. Hard.»

«I don't see why you bother.» Phil had gone into his sulking phase, complete with sniffling. «He hated you more than he hated me.»

«See, that's where you're wrong. Doubly wrong: I'm not doing this for _him_ ; I'm doing it for me. And the sad thing is, he didn't hate me. See, he appreciates people who don't look up to him; don't fall for the act. That's why he never liked you.» 

She left before she could hear Phil's reply. Not that she would have; the walls were padded in every sense of the word, weren't they?

* * *

Fair enough, she'd probably needed the sleep, but it was nonetheless a little humiliating to wake up in Paris with no memory of her first Chunnel experience. She'd been ignoring her phone since she got on the Tube at King's Cross, but she hadn't turned it off completely. She wasn't supposed to, of course, but with the sound and vibration both muted, it really was a moot point. She ought to check it. She really, really... Sally thrust the green faux-leather cover deeper into her shoulder bag, layering her cardigan on top. Fuck it. Greg knew where she was going; if Mars invaded, or Sherlock Holmes returned from the dead – both equally likely – he could find her. Put some effort in for once. No, that was unfair; they'd all had their hands full since Christmas, even without the Waters case driving everyone spare. She gripped the handle of her suitcase harder and rolled it resolutely in the general direction of Switzerland, by ways of her new train. 

The other phone, her rarely-used, so-called _personal_ phone lay unfamiliarly in Sally's lap as they pulled out of the Gare du Nord. It had already buzzed twice, but she continued to ignore it. Possibly, she should turn it off; hardly anyone rang her on it, these days. Even her sister used her work number, which, now that she thought about it, was a sign of how far things had gone. Much as she hated to admit it, her method of coping with Sherlock's death might not be much better than Phil's. It was just less extravagant; involving less growing of facial hair. 

Sally sighed, kicking off her remaining shoe. She didn't like to drink on weekdays, normally, but this was a holiday, wasn't it? She could still remember what those were like. Vaguely. At least having so little time in which to spend it meant there'd been enough money in her holiday savings for an upgrade, and so, the glass of wine was only a wave and a short wait away. It wasn't fantastic, but then again, she hadn't specified. You get what you ask for. 

Still. Best glass of wine she'd had in bloody ages.

* * *

Two hours on, and her phone was still untouched. Sally didn't quite know why, beyond the fact that her Kindle and the by now twice refilled glass of wine were much more appealing things on which to spend her time. The view had been nice while it lasted, but grey March afternoon had given way to dull, charcoal March evening, and she had, a little guiltily, lost interest. When had she last been away for more than a night or two? Or gone any further away than Brighton for the weekend with Jill or Channa, either one or of which could be the one trying to reach her? She was lucky to have friends to go away with, even for a weekend boozer to Brighton; she'd seen the shambles that was Greg's social life, and then there was Phil...

«Excuse me, Madame?»

Something about the voice made the Yarder in Sally sit up and pay attention. (She wasn't even reclining properly in her chair, she noticed.) The woman standing over her was a tall brunette with light brown skin and pretty, if skittish brown eyes. There came the absurd thought that she didn't _look_ French. With practised effort, Sally made herself appear relaxed. 

«We'll be serving dinner in a moment; have you had a chance to look at the menu?» 

She didn't _sound_ French either. Her English wasn't perfect, but the accent wasn't right; for one thing, it was barely even there. «Thanks,» Sally told her, wondering if the wine was messing with her memory; she had a fairly good one for faces, «I'll have the salmon.»

«Of course, Madame.» The woman smiled. 'Marie', the little sign on her lapel said her name was, which didn't clarify much of anything. «And would you like another glass of wine?»

She shouldn't. «All right.» She shook her head, smiled. Made the effort. «I mean, yes. Thank you.»

Marie's smile grew wider, lighting up her face, and Sally realized she was mistaking attraction for familiarity. _It's just a pretty girl on a train. You're not working. Ease off._ «I'll be right back.»

She was. Sally hadn't made it a point to notice, but the compartment was more or less empty. A short, blonde woman about her own age was in the row opposite, headphones permanently attached to her ears. She kept a glass of wine beside her, but Sally hadn't seen her drink from it. Whatever she was listening to had to be pretty engrossing. Audiobook, maybe. Then there was the dozing little man two rows on who could have been dead ringer for Hercule Poirot – Ustinov Poirot, not Suchet, and a couple of nearly identical-looking suits to the right and left behind her. She'd have thought the Easter weekend would be a busy time for travel, but perhaps not. Or maybe few people bothered to upgrade? First class or no, it was eeriely quiet compared to English trains. This wasn't even the quiet coach. 

«You know what,» she told Marie when she returned with a third glass, «I think I'll go to the restaurant carriage.»

* * *

The fact that this train _actually had one_ was partly why Sally now found herself in front of an actual table with plates and glasses and silverware – all right; the latter would probably have been provided at her seat – and waitstaff taking orders. She always felt like a character out of an Agatha Christie novel in a proper restaurant carriage; all the more here, where every passenger seemed to be from a different country. Ustinov Poirot had followed her in and was French – Belgian, she corrected in her mind, trying not to giggle. Maybe too much wine. Maybe not. She took another sip, and tried to filter out the different voices; German, Italian, French again... English? She turned in the direction of the soft, wilting tones; a solitary man just behind her. American, she decided, or Irish. He looked up, and before she could apologize for staring, two things happened to prevent her, in rapid succession: First, the train ground to a screeching halt. 

Though she was fond of trains, Sally had never been all too interested their speed, engines and breaking distance. She still had no idea what either of them were, but having experienced what an emergency stop _felt like_ , she had little to no interest in finding out more about it. Not that she had long to contemplate it, lying as she did face down in her salmon pasta, because the second thing that prevented her from talking to the soft-spoken American happened immediately afterwards: The lights went out. 

As she sat in the darkness, picking fish out of her eyes, Sally could only think of one thing. _I fucking hope there isn't going to be a murder._

Which, she later supposed, only goes to show that you should be ever careful what you wish for.


	2. Chapter 2

«I'm... Harriet,» the short, blonde girl with the headphones volunteered when they had all filed back into their seats, shortly after asking, three or four times, if Sally was 'all right'. «Harriet Jones.» 

Even without the awkward pause, that was the most obvious pseudonym Sally had heard in a while. «Doctor Who fan, are you?» 

«Er... not really?» 

«Never mind.» This wasn't an investigation; if some random woman on a train didn't want to disclose her real name, that was hardly Sally's business. _Then why did she tell you? Why volunteer a false name?_ None. Of her business. Sally closed her eyes and tried to settle. 

«D'you know what happened?»

«Power's out.»

«Yeah, I did notice!» The glass on her table was still full. Untouched, or refilled? _None of your business._ «D'you know why?»

«Haven't heard, yet.» 

«Right. I'll suppose they'll make an annoucement. Hey, excuse me-» The English-fluent French girl – Marie – hurried past them, and Harriet caught her arm. Sally looked away in sympathy; she didn't like being touched by strangers. When she looked back, it seemed Marie had flinched too. «Sorry,» Harriet said, «I was just wondering if you could tell us what was going on? My friend here was in the restaurant carriage when it happened-» 

_Friend,_ Sally blanched. What was this; a charter holiday? 

«-and all they told her was that the power had gone out!» 

«I'm terribly sorry, Madame.» To her credit, Marie sounded it. «I promise you we will let you know as soon as we get any news.» 

«News?» The voice came from behind; one of the suits. _Irish_ , Sally noted. The man from the restaurant. She did not turn; she didn't have to. What had tickled the edges of her mind just before the lights went out came back to her all at once; Daniel MacDermott. London financier with an even flimsier job description than that title usually indicated; accused over the years of everything from petty theft to copyright infringement, arrested for driving under the influence an unprecedented _seventeen_ times, twice for insider trading, convicted of embezzlement, fraud, lack of compliance with labor laws and workplace discrimination. Oh, and the small matter of series of brutal rape charges, all of which he all but admitted to – though not in a legally binding way, of course. Sally fumbled for her glass before remembering it wasn't there anymore. It was somewhere on the floor of the restaurant carriage. «From where?» 

«We believe there's been a lightening strike, sir.» 

«Lightening? We've had nothing but clear skies!»

«The closest power station is some kilometers away, sir. It is April; the weather can be changeable; we are currently awaiting news. Meanwhile, I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience!» Marie sounded calmer than Sally would have been, under the circumstances. At least so it seemed, until she turned to Sally, muttering, «I'll get you a napkin.» Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes nearly closed. 

«What for?»

«You have some...» Marie smiled distractedly, pointed to Sally's chin, and made her way, quickly, to the door. Sally felt her face; her hand came away sticky and smelling of lemon and fish. 

Wonderful. Stuck on a train with an unconvicted – of course he'd never spent so much as a half-day in prison – rapist pig, an overly friendly seat neighbor, albeit across the aisle, and no way of knowing if she'd make it to her ski lodge in time for last call at the bar. «Thanks,» she told Marie when she returned, and nearly dropped the napkin she was handed when the pathways in her mind finally connected. Marie's face slotted neatly into place as the – sod 'alleged' - third victim of Daniel MacDermott. «Thanks,» she half-whispered, as Marie's clicking heels retreated.

* * *

«Are you all right?» Harriet asked her for what had to be the fifth time.

«Yeah.»

«How long has it been, now, d'you know?» 

Marie had not been back since she'd brought the napkin, understandably. Sally was glad she hadn't seen the girl's face when MacDermott had spoken to her. He'd sounded so... dry, though. Natural, like there was nothing out of the ordinary happening. «Dunno,» she shot in Harriet's direction, when she noticed she was being eagerly stared at. «About an hour?»

«It's been nearly an hour an a half!» The _other_ suit, thankfully. This one was English, or possibly Welsh with a polished-off accent and one hell of an attitude. He'd been arguing loudly with someone on his phone ever since Marie had left them. Sally was surprised he'd taken a break to shout at them. «I've got an important meeting in Basel!» 

«What,» Harriet snorted, «at this hour?»

«It's a dinner,» he told her, in the manner of someone explaining advanced astrophysics. «And none of your concern.» 

«It wouldn't be, if you'd shut up about it.» Harriet grinned at Sally. All right, she might be warming up to this woman. A bit. 

Between Harriet's snark and, quite possibly, the way he was going at it, the battery on his phone dying, the suit simmered down. Harriet retreated back underneath her headphones, and Sally was left wondering where on Earth MacDermott had gotten off to. The loo, probably; he'd left in the opposite direction of Marie, which was all Sally really cared about. Or all she _should_ care about. Wankers like MacDermott really got under her skin. She remembered his trial. There had been only one of them, because despite the media circus surrounding every case, all but one had been settled out of court. Considering the farce that had taken place when they actually got him in there, Sally could sympathize, if not agree with, the fact that the remaining two cases after that had gone back to settlement. She did wonder if it hadn't all been orchestrated to show the pointlessness of actually taking him on. Sally knew men like MacDermott. They weren't all disgusting rapists, but they all enjoyed flaunting their power. And they were, unfortunately, smart enough only to do that when they knew themselves to genuinely be in a postion where that power would not be challenged. They had money, connections, the right name, the right family, the right vowel sounds. They knew exactly what to say and how to say it, and to whom; who they should suck up to and who they should browbeat. Yeah, she'd known a few men like that. And common to them all was a perverse joy in doing exactly what they wanted, knowing they would always get away with it. 

_All right. Ease up on the revenge fantasies. You're supposed to be on holiday. Soon, anyway._ Sally looked with envy towards Harriet's still untouched glass of wine. She couldn't call Marie back in here; it was almost worth it to ask if Harriet was having hers...

«Excuse me, Madame?» Marie appeared at her shoulder, somehow managing to sidle up unseen without startling her. 

«Yes?» What was she doing here? She was half crouching, pressed close against the dark leather seats. 

«You're Sally Donovan, aren't you? The detective?» 

«Detective Sergeant, yeah...» The correction was automatic, as was the sinking feeling in her gut. There had, to date, on been one reason why anyone would recognize her, and it had little to do with her own exemplary police work. 

«I would very much like to talk to you. Please.» 

Sally gave the wine glass one last, longing look. Much like the one Marie was giving her. «All right,» she said. 

«Come with me.»

* * *

It was one of those rooms you knew had to exist, but never thought much about, like the spaces at the back of magician's props. It was always about the illusion of someone being sawed in half, never the secret space preventing it from actually happening. Or, if you like, the illusion of food and drink appearing out f nowhere. They barely fit in there, the two of them, Sally balancing against what looked like a disused beverage cart, Marie more elegantly leaning against the closed door, her elbow propped up on a crate of bottled water. Everything smelled vaguely of dust and clean plastic. 

«So,» Sally said. 

«So.» Marie made as if to search her pocket, then seemed to remember that the one in her uniform was fake, and sighed. «I apologize for this, truly.»

«Your English is very good.»

«Thank you. I used to live there.»

«Whereabouts? London?»

Marie looked up, suprised, but not startled. «You have a good memory, Detective Sergeant.» 

« _Sally_. I'm on holiday. At least I'm trying to be. But yeah, I remember you. I followed the trial.» 

«I tried to stay on, after. I was born in Lyon, but my home is London. I want to go back someday, but...» She patted her non-pocket again, and half-smiled in apology. «I keep doing that, don't I? I stopped smoking last week.»

«What did you want to ask me?» For whatever reason, people ( _victims_ , she tried not to think) seemed to find Sally approachable; easy to talk to. Granted, they didn't usually drag her into supply closets in order to do so. 

«I was still there when they tried to arrest him.» 

Sally frowned. «MacDermott?» 

«Sherlock Holmes.» 

_Oh, Christ_. However much she had prepared for it, it still stung. «I can't help you.» 

Marie leaned forward, nudging aside empty cartons. «I saw you on television. The way you spoke; I still remember it, so clearly. You said he was an-»

«I said a lot of things,» Sally cut her off. «None of which matter any more. I don't know what you've read,» Phil's stupid website, probably. She should have a talk with Gary at the Cyber Crime unit about getting it shut down, «but Sherlock Holmes is dead. I'm really sorry, but whatever or whomever it is you think I can do to get you in touch with-»

«I don't want Sherlock Holmes.» For the first time, Marie had raised her voice. Donovan stopped dead from the pure novelty of it. «When I saw you being interviewed about the most famous man in England; this celebrated genius, with an army of supporters, and I looked at you... and you just stood there, calmly answering questions. And the things you-»

«Yeah, like I said, I said a lot of things.»

«You're not afraid.»

«Sorry?»

«You're not afraid of powerful men. To speak against them.» Marie wobbled on precarious heels, the sentence not quite ending in a question mark. 

«No,» Sally told her. «No, I'm not.» 

«Then I have a favor to ask of you.»


	3. Chapter 3

The thing about coincidences is not that they do not occur - in fact, they occur all the time. The thing about coincidences is that you don't notice them unless they're significant. And if they _are_ significant, chances are they're not coincidences. A British un-convicted rapist, his victim, and a Scotland Yard police officer on the same train, in Switzerland? _Sherlock wouldn't have thought that a coincidence,_ Sally brooded, as she folded herself back into her chair. 

"You OK," came Harriet's inevitable chirping. Sally replied with nod and a grunt, and pulled out a set of battered earbuds that weren't connected to anything, hoping Harriet wouldn't notice. Of _course_ Marie being there wasn't a coincidence. She'd seen MacDermott boarding, and had swapped places with a friend last minute, hoping to... well, that part still wasn't entirely clear to Sally. Possibly because it wasn't entirely clear to Marie. _"I saw him,"_ she'd said, glowing with unexpected enthusiasm, _"and I just knew I had to do something. I just wanted to stand there, face to face with him and have him admit what he did, to me. I know that’s ridiculous; that it won’t happen, but that's what I can't get past, you know? The fact that he kept denying it. I have no memory of his face; I can't prove that it was him, even to myself. I don't even have that!"_

Easy to sympathize with. But sympathy only got you so far. Certainly, wringing a confession out of MacDermott would be fantastic, but was it feasible? In the dim compartment, Sally considered. All right. If the three of them being on this train together wasn't a coincidence, then the power failure wasn't likely to be either. Marie swore it had nothing to do with her, and Sally saw no reason for her to be lying. MacDermott, then? But why would he _want_ to strand himself with Marie - and assuming he knew who she were, Sally? 

She tried to remember Marie's case; the finer details, the missing pieces that you'd gloss over when it was just a news story in the background at work, or on the radio when you were falling asleep over your morning coffee. As much as the case had been on her mind while it happened, Sally's life was full of unsolved cases she was actually _assigned_ to work on, and times, dates and witness statements had, in the years since, faded away, drowned in the white noise of myriad Scotland Yard workdays. She remembered the drugs, or thought she did; it might just be Marie's mention of them, and the circumstances, such as they were. Marie had been a student, working part time at one of the many corporation pies into which MacDermott's grubby fingers had been stuck. A student of what - business? Finance? Marketing? Something along those lines; the press had called her a 'prodigy' but then again, they would. Marie had met MacDermott several times, and testified that he had come off as polite and charming, though not in the least flirtatious. (Naturally, this was leaped upon by the defense, and used to her discredit.) Marie been there for just under three months, and had been working late, in the manner of upwardly mobile young people, when the lights had gone out. Not wanting to go through the near-empty building in darkness, Marie had waited patiently, sipping tea that she later remembered as having tasted funny. Soon, she began to feel dizzy, and slumped over her desk. The next thing she remembered was waking to find someone - MacDermott, not that anyone had been able to prove it - raping her. 

Sally pulled her feet up into her seat, and watched the unmoving landscape outside. She knew better than to ask how Marie had known it was MacDermott, but Marie had told her anyway. 

"His smell. His hands. He always wears this ridiculous, over-sized ring. It scraped my cheek. Here." She'd pushed her dark brown hair away from her made up skin, not expecting Sally to see. But she didn't need to.   
"We'll get him," she'd promised. Like an idiot.

* * *

The natives were growing restless. The Welsh suit - Sally was certain now; his accent was peaking right along with his righteous indignation - was well into his third argument with a laconic attendant on the far side of the compartment. Sally was beginning think he was more concerned with impressing everyone else about the importance of his meeting than he was with actually getting to it on time. Vanity was a strange thing. Even MacDermott, usually the picture of calm, was stirring quietly behind his slimline pad. He probably knew she was watching him. Sally didn't care. 

Harriet, thank any deities at hand for small mercies, had fallen asleep with her player still running, indeterminate music softly eeking out from one dangling headphone speaker. Sally wished, for a moment, that's she'd brought something other than her phone to plug hers into. No good using up her phone's battery when there was no way to recharge it, and besides, she couldn't afford to stream anything while roaming. The Wi-Fi, of course, had been lost with the power. Which begged the question, she thought, in between trying to decide if yet another glass of wine was worth risking going to the loo in the dark again, of why an Irish businessman would be sitting there with a pad... Before she could turn, a hand landed on the back of her seat, just to the right of her shoulder. 

"Do you perhaps agree," MacDermott said, "that we should have a little chat?" 

"Here?" Sally surprised herself by giggling. "You want to _talk_? Here?" 

MacDermott shrugged. "She's fast asleep," he nodded at Harriet, who gave a little snore as if on cue. "He's got other things on his mind," he nodded to the ongoing argument in the front. "I don't see why not."

"All right." _What's your angle?_

"As you've probably suspected by now - and I'll be disappointed if you haven't - this little stop was engineered by me."

"How," Sally blurted, to stop herself from asking the more pertinent _why_. He'd have an answer prepared for that, unless she managed to catch him off guard. "You were in the dining cart; I saw you."

MacDermott shrugged again. He had an air of ineffable calm about him that didn't translate into pictures and vids, as though everything outside his immediate attention was an unimportant afterthought. "Does it matter? I'm only telling you to satisfy your curiosity and stop you snooping around. I'll confess - officially, you understand - if my hand is forced, but I'd rather lay low and take my chances. More my style, you see."

"What makes you think I won't report you?" 

"The fact that I know you're intelligent enough to realize it's unprovable. I'll give you the details if you're not convinced; right now, staff are being informed that the nearest power station is experiencing difficulties. It’ll be up and running again in about three or four hours - unbeknownst to the staff, of course - and we shall be on our way."

"You shut down a power station? What’s in it for you?" 

MacDermott shook his head, smiling. “Now, Detective Sergeant. You already know the only answer I’ll give to that: Because it suits my purposes.”

Which, of course, was saying sod all. How on God’s green Earth could the purposes of the CEO of a multinational conglomerate be served by a power station in the middle of nowhere in the Swiss alps shutting down? The train – it had to be the train, or someone on it. It took considerable dicipline for Sally not to glance towards the door through which she’d last seen Marie vanish. She was sure she did not so much as flinch, yet MacDermott snorted. The last of too many straws. “You stay away from her,” she snarled. “You hear me? I might be unarmed, but don’t think that means I can’t hurt you if you so much as go _near_ that girl!”

“Please. Do you think I’d be talking to you if _that_ was my plan? Nothing is going to happen. Your little girlfriend is safe, and so is everyone else on this train. And before you ask why you should trust me, ask yourself why I’m telling you all this.”

“Because you like the sound of your own voice?”

He shook his head. “You’ll figure it out. Meanwhile, I see our friend with the anger management problem is returning. I’ll leave you to your…” He glanced towards the unconnected headphones and shrugged. 

MacDermott slipped sideways just as the other suit tore his way past them, muttering obscenities, some of which had to be in Welsh. Sinking back into her chair, adrenaline pumping profusely, Sally almost envied him; he knew exactly what his problem was, and what would solve it.

* * *

“I almost envy him,” Harriet said, waving her fork in the general direction of the back of the carriage. 

Sally started awake; the crew had issued blankets a while back, and despite her best intentions, the near darkness and warmth had made her doze off. “Who?”   
“Welshy. What’s his name…”

“I wouldn’t know,” Sally muttered, relaxing. 

“I do.”

Unsurprising. Harriet had probably struck up conversations with everyone by this point. Possibly even… Sally sat up, working out the earbud that had burrowed into her hair while she slept. Time to play ‘friendly neighbor’. “Did you two have a chat, then?”

Harriet shook her head, and took another bite out of her salad – Sally noticed a still-boxed one had been placed on her own tray table, with the surprising addition of proper stainless steel cutlery. Possibly tourists to the alps didn’t tend to hijack trains with salad forks. Then again, maybe English trains had metal knives in First Class too. Sally wouldn’t know. “I’ve met him before. Expect he’s going to Basel.”

“So he keeps saying.” 

“I used to have an ex in Basel. Well, not an ex at the time, of course. I’d see that guy in the clubs there all the time.” She grinned. “Can you imagine that stiff bastard strutting around in leather trousers with his top off? Shows you never can tell.”

Ah, _those_ sorts of clubs. “Why do you envy him?”

“He knows exactly what he wants, doesn’t he? Needs to get to his work meeting on time, needs to get his job done. Fairly simple, right? Me, I don’t even know where I’m going after my next stop.” 

“Which is where, exactly?” Sally pried open the salad box lid. 

“Basel, as it happens. Don’t have any pressing meetings there though. Except with a hot bath and a warm bed.”

“Tell me about it.” Sally didn’t have to pretend to agree with that particular statement. “So, you’re just sort of traveling around?” God, she had to improve her small talk. Even Sherlock had been better than this. Thankfully, Harriet didn’t seem to mind.

“That’s me. An unstoppable force that’s never met its immovable object.” She smiled again, a certain something in her eyes this time. “I used to do physics at Heriot-Watt's – and yes, I’ve heard all the jokes, so don’t bother.”

“What happened?”

Harriet speared a hunk of slightly soggy cheese. “Me. Like I said; never met an irresistible force to stop my momentum. Uni certainly wasn’t it, though I met my ex wife there. Not the one in Basel, by the way; that was later, and we didn’t marry. Thankfully. Anyway, I didn’t much fancy Scotland; too moist.” She looked down. “Like this salad.” 

Sally poked at her own. “Shouldn’t I bother?” 

“Might as well eat; there’s no telling when this train will get going again.”

 _Less than two hours_ , Sally thought, glancing at her watch. She picked up a cherry tomato and chewed it slowly. 

“Anyway, what do you do, then?”

“You won’t believe me.”

Harriet laughed. “You’d be surprised at the things I’m willing to believe. Go on.” 

“All right; I work for Scotland Yard.”

Harriet slapped her fork down, grinning from ear to ear now. “Get out!” 

“I’d rather not; it’s freezing out there.”

“You’re a detective?”

“Detective Sergeant, yes.”

“Don’t tell me there’s going to be a murder.”

Sally forced a smile, and tried to find an edible piece of cheese. “I hope not.”


End file.
